


ma nishtana

by facingthenorthwind (spacegandalf)



Series: we shall do and understand [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, Gen, Judaism, Pesach Seder, Pesach | Passover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 10:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18618655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegandalf/pseuds/facingthenorthwind
Summary: Anthony leads Dumbledore's Army in a seder. They aren't exactly free, but it's always a good time to celebrate freedom.





	ma nishtana

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously some parts of the seder are elided for my sanity and that of the reader. All the good lines are not mine, but Zoe doesn't have an ao3 account and thus can't be co-author.

The day the Room of Requirement produced a table with haggadot, a seder plate and a matzah cover, Anthony just sighed. This time, instead of catching him by surprise, he’d been aware of Pesach looming ever closer, but he thought — perhaps the Room would let him skip this one. He was barely going to class these days; things were so bad that there were more people in the Room permanently than ever. There were so much _bigger_ things than Pesach, and he was sure no one would want to sit through a weird structured dinner party anyway. Also, where would he get the matzah?

That was all just excuses. On one hand, he knew that just because the Room had given him haggadot didn’t mean he _had_ to make use of them; he had free will, and nobody would question him even if they asked about Pesach. On the other, everyone had got pretty into Chanukah and Purim, inexplicably. When he’d asked Neville why everyone was so enthusiastic, even asking him when candle lighting was, Neville had pointed out that it was a moment to not think about the outside. A moment to focus on something new and normal and not life-threatening.

So he had to. Of course he had to.

Aberforth had grumbled a lot when he’d put in the request for matzot, especially with the requirement that it go in the oven within eighteen minutes of the water being added to the dough to prevent leavening. Anthony thought that the request for charoset, parsley, an egg, a bone and two different forms of horseradish would at the very least get a point-blank refusal, but Aberforth just made him write it down for him, muttering the whole time about students who thought he was some kind of house elf. For all his complaints, though, he’d produced plenty, and when Anthony had said his parents would be happy to send Aberforth money for it, he’d brushed him off, saying it would look suspicious. Anthony learnt from Neville later that Aberforth refused payment for any of the food he supplied them; when Neville had suggested ways to safely transfer money in a way that wouldn’t bring suspicion from the Death Eaters monitoring the village, Aberforth had said it was payment for past crimes. He’d refused to elaborate further.

Two days before Erev Pesach, Anthony was as surprised as anyone else when Neville stood up before they served dinner to make an announcement. “In two days it’s the first night of Pesach, a Jewish holiday celebrating the Jewish people’s exodus from Egypt. Anthony will be leading a seder, the ritual meal for the holiday, and I hope everyone will be able to attend. Anthony assures me everything will be explained and questions are encouraged, so perhaps we’ll learn something at this educational institution for once.”

There were a few dark chuckles from the older students at that, but Anthony didn’t expect almost everyone to turn up ready for the seder two days later. There was stew bubbling gently on the fire and matzot in the middle of the table. The seder plate with its six wells filled with different things was raised up so everyone could see it more clearly. The Room had produced a whole drawer full of kippot from somewhere, and people were passing them around and flipping through the haggadot, thin books containing the ritual text they would read, at each place setting.

Eventually Anthony stood up and cleared his throat, everyone quieting down in anticipation. “Um, so it’s the first night of Pesach and you’re supposed to retell the story of the Exodus and discuss it. So that’s what we’ll be doing. All questions are allowed and encouraged, there’s no question too silly, and if you have to leave for any reason then that’s totally fine. If you want to turn to page three, we’ll start with the candles. Those of you who were here for Chanukah will remember this blessing.”

He lit the candle and said the blessing, taking a moment to watch the flames dancing. Everything was terrible and he felt at sea most days, unable to even form a frame of reference for the hell they were all living through — but the candles looked the same. Some things remained. “Now because it’s the first night, we get to say the shehechiyanu — the blessing you make when you do something for the first time in a year. Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech haolam, shehechiyanu v’kiyamanu v’higianu lazman hazeh. Blessed are you, God, Sovereign of the Universe, who gives us life, sustains us and has enabled us to reach this season.” Everyone responded with amein even though he’d forgot to ask them to, and he smiled. 

“We always usher in a holiday with candles and wine, although for everyone except the Seventh Years we’ve got grape juice instead. If everyone wants to pour their first cup, and I’ll say the blessing and then we can drink it.” Anthony held his cup aloft as he recited the blessing, thanking God for the wine, for mitzvot and for festivals. Everyone drank after saying amein, and Anthony couldn’t help but think of how he’s never had a seder this big before. This year, as they are the least free they’ve ever been, they’re all here to commemorate freedom.

“Next, I’m going to wash my hands on everyone’s behalf, because everyone doing it would take forever. We wash our hands before we eat in Judaism, although tonight we’ll do it twice. This first time there’s no blessing, because we won’t eat enough to constitute a meal, and the second time we will say a blessing.” Anthony took the pitcher that was floating in the bowl of water next to him and poured water onto his hand three times, then switched hands to do it again. He towelled them dry and said, “We start our story in water: the water of the Nile, as the baby Moses is set aloft in a reed basket, found by the daughter of Pharaoh. Water is a giver of life, as it is here with Moses, enabling him to escape death; but later on near the end of this story, water brings death, drowning the Egyptians. Freedom, like water, can be used for good and bad, and it’s our responsibility to use our freedom to fight for the freedom of others. As we reflect tonight on the long history of our people, let our telling pour forth like water, strengthening spirits and refreshing souls.”

Technically, Anthony supposed it was only his people, but everyone at the seder was as if they were personally brought out of Egypt, so that made them temporarily part of his people too. And they were all under the yoke of the Carrows, unable to even go to lessons or eat food, trapped in this school-prison, with no end in sight. 

“Our first symbol of the seder is karpas, a green vegetable dipped in salt water. The salt water represents the tears of our people in slavery and of others who are enslaved — perhaps trapped in a secret room in a school they are forced to attend even though it barely functions anymore. The green vegetable is a symbol of spring and renewal. It is the hope that slavery will end; that we will all be renewed. Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, borei pri ha’adamah. Blessed are You, God, Sovereign of the Universe, creator of the fruit of the earth.”

He dipped a stalk of parsley into the bowl of salt water down that end of the table and ate it. He wasn’t fond of parsley, but the salt water helped a lot to mitigate the taste, oddly enough. Once he had swallowed he lifted a plate that had three matzot on it, before taking the middle one and breaking it in half, putting the larger half inside a small cloth bag. “This is the afikoman. Traditionally, it’s hidden and at the end, the children attending the seder go find it. Since the meal isn’t over until everyone has eaten some of the afikoman, the head of the seder has to bargain with the children to get it back. The afikoman’s recovery is a symbol that what seems broken may be repaired, and what seems lost may yet be recovered. It’s a reminder that I think we all need, especially now.”

Anthony took the afikoman and hid it behind one of the sofa cushions in front of the fireplace. Everyone saw him do it, but the finding wasn’t the point — the hope was.

“The three matzot represent different things to different people. Some traditions say it’s representative of the three biblical categories of Jews — priests, Levites and the other ten tribes. That’s what this haggadah says. I’ve seen haggadot that speak of the free who care, the unfree and the free who don’t care. We break the middle sheet to symbolically break the chains of the unfree, in the hope that their burdens will be broken in the coming year. If we think about it this way, the finding of the afikoman and the sharing of it by the whole seder becomes representative of us welcoming the newly freed person into our community.

“But no matter what symbolism we pick, the seder presupposes that we who are partaking in it are free. That’s not true this year, and there have been s’darim in the past where that wasn’t true. This year we are the middle sheet, breaking our own chains. It’s not enough just to escape from captivity, though — until we can help every person have freedom and autonomy and belonging, there are still bonds binding us. This year, we are still slaves. Next year, we hope that we will be truly free.” Anthony’s voice broke on the last word, and he coughed in an effort to cover it up. Many of the people at the table had bruises or cuts or welts that showed just how unfree they were. The very fact that Anthony was having this seder here at all, instead of having leave to go home for the holiday was because they were the ones who needed to be freed this year. 

For a moment, the enormity of it all overwhelmed him. How could they possibly fix this? They were fighting as hard as they could, but the situation wasn’t improving — it was just getting worse, people disappearing, fewer people having the strength to fight. And the people that _were_ fighting needed an ever-increasing amount of medical attention afterwards. It was only a matter of time before someone died — which was to say nothing of the situation in the rest of the country, where Anthony was _certain_ people had already died. He felt so unequipped to deal with any of it, and yet — and yet Judaism already knew that. His job was not to complete the work. He only had to contribute to it.

He took a deep breath. “Eating matzah on Pesach reminds us of the suffering of all people who are enslaved, because I guess usually we need the reminder. It’s the symbol of our forebears’ slavery in Egypt, and it’s bland and unpleasant and gives us constipation to remind us that there’s worse out there, and we have to fight it.” He put the plate down and covered it with the matzah cover before sitting down. “This next bit is supposed to be said by the youngest person at the table — who’s that? Neville, you probably have a better idea of who’s here than I do.”

Neville was the one who kept the list updated of the permanent residents of the Room, after all — it was a handwritten list pinned to the noticeboard right next to the door. He was sitting two places to Anthony’s left, and hummed in thought for a moment. “I think we have a few Third Years? Nelwyn and Tribby joined us a few days ago, actually, I think they’re our youngest. Tribby, are you the youngest?” Neville said, louder.

“Nelly’s birthday’s after mine,” someone said back, presumably Tribby.

“Nelly, are you comfortable reading the four questions in English?” Anthony said, scanning the table in the hope that Nelly would reveal herself. He really should pay more attention to who was in the Room, but sometimes he got caught up in helping out with big actions or researching magic they needed or even just trying to pretend there was some faint resemblance of normality, and keeping up with people’s names fell to the wayside.

“Yeah. Do I just start and say them all in a row?” Nelly turned out to be a surprisingly tiny Chinese girl with an angry cut across her nose, probably related to why she was here in the first place. She had a thick Brummie accent and showed absolutely no fear at being put on the spot like this, to Anthony’s delight.

“That would be lovely.”

“How is this night different from all other nights? Every other night we eat bread or matzah. Why do we eat only matzah tonight? Every other night we eat all sorts of vegetables. Why do we eat maror tonight? Every other night we eat vegetables as part of the meal. Why do we eat vegetables dipped in salt water and maror dipped in chopped fruit before we even start the meal? Every other night we may sit upright or lean at the table. Why are we supposed to lean tonight?”

“Thank you, that was wonderful. Traditionally, it’s sung by the youngest person at the table, but since the song is both in Hebrew and also a tune you don’t know, I’m not going to get you to do that. The questions represent the inquisitiveness of youth and the importance of both questioning and teaching: Judaism believes that the questions which sustain us are the questions one generation asks another. In our context here, it’s a reminder that we’ve got to help each other and our younger members shouldn’t be afraid to ask questions, whether that’s tonight or any other day of the year. The only way we’re going to survive this year is together.

“There’s no single answer to these specific questions Nelly asked. Part of celebrating the questioning is discussing the multiplicity of responses. In the simplest of terms, we eat matzah because when our ancestors left Egypt they were in a hurry, and did not have time for their bread to rise. We eat bitter herbs to remind us of the bitterness of slavery. We dip our food in salt water for reasons we’ve explained, and in charoset for reasons we will get to later. We lean tonight as a sign of freedom, a reflection of ancient cultures where the nobility ate while reclining. Within the walls of this room, at least, we are free.

“That’s only the simplest way of thinking about these questions and their answers. The root of the questions is difference, and one of the main things about tonight is the celebration of difference. Not just small, inconsequential differences like how we sit while eating or what we dip our food in, but also differences like what house we’re in and whether we’re from a Muggleborn family or a pureblood one. Pesach’s challenge to us all is to accept and nurture difference, and to welcome difference into our communities and our families and ourselves. I know that by being here you’ve probably already done some work towards that, but just as Pesach is about taking something from this one night out into your everyday lived experiences, we can think about the future, too. A future where we’re not hiding in this school, but we’ve got to be as accepting then as we have to be now.”

“Hear hear,” Neville said, banging the table. Anthony laughed, transported for a moment to a simpler time, though it was an ugly omen of what was to come — an afternoon in the Hog’s Head, Harry founding the DA. They’d thought Umbridge was the worst it could possibly get, back then. They’d been wrong.

“For this next bit, the telling of the story, we’re going to go around the table and take turns reading it out. If you don’t want to read, you just have to say so and we’ll skip you. Zach, do you want to start?” 

Zacharias, who was sitting to his right, nodded and began to read. “The story goes that we were once slaves, and now we are free. We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt but God brought us out with an outstretched arm. If God had not brought our ancestors out of Egypt then we, and our children, and our children’s children would still be slaves there. That’s why it’s our duty to tell and retell the story of the Exodus: the more we reflect upon the story, the deeper our understanding of what freedom means will be, and the stronger our determination to win it for ourselves and for others. Anth, I don’t think I need this as motivation, honestly.”

“Zach,” Anthony said, rolling his eyes. “You know the majority of people reading this around the world are in fact not trapped in a castle under the thumb of Death Eaters who want to kill people we love. Sometimes things in this won’t be super relevant. It’s still our duty to tell it, though, because it’s times like this when we most need the kind of normality that ritual brings. Buy into it for me, please?”

“Yeah, sure. The rabbis of long ago loved to discuss the story of the Exodus; they would even become so engrossed in it that they stayed up all night. Discussing the Exodus was also used as a covert way to discuss current rebellions, most notably against the Romans. Thus the story of the Exodus was told and retold, from generation to generation; parents would tell the story to their children, so that they in turn would tell it to their children. But, as the ancient rabbis knew, children are different from one another. They spoke of four kinds of children and how to respond most effectively to each one.

“The first kind of child is the wise child. This child loves Pesach and asks, ‘What are the laws and commandments? What are our responsibilities to those less fortunate than us?’ This child is not yet full of knowledge — their wisdom is in their thirst for learning. Our responsibility is to praise this child and teach them our traditions, encouraging them to take an active part in our community and in helping others.”

“Thanks, Zach. Demelza, do you want to go next?”

Demelza (and why was she sitting next to Zacharias? Anthony had no idea — perhaps it was just that someone had to. He had no delusions about Zacharias’s popularity) cleared her throat and nodded. “The second is the rebellious child, who says, ‘What does this mean to you? Why should I care about others?’, distancing themselves from their community. We should scold this child, saying, ‘It is because of what God did for me when I went out of Egypt.’ We respond with pointed teeth because a child who does not embrace the community or care about others cannot expect help in return. Hmmm, I sure wonder who that sounds like,” Demelza said sarcastically. “Slytherins wouldn’t know how to care about others if it bit them on the face.”

“Does this response to the rebellious child help or hurt, though?” asked Anthony. “It isolates them from the community, forcing them to turn elsewhere in their time of need. If there are Slytherins who don’t want to be evil, they don’t have anywhere to go.”

“Maybe they should’ve thought of that before they decided to be Death Eaters,” Zacharias said.

“I doubt everyone who gets sorted into Slytherin gets off the stool and says, ‘Hooray for pureblood supremacy!’” Anthony said. “But the way other houses are so suspicious of Slytherins maybe forces them to find community and comfort within those supremacist structures, so—”

“Would you say that about the Slytherins who literally tortured you last month?” Neville said.

“... No,” Anthony admitted. “No, they seemed like they were enjoying it quite a bit.”

There was a dejected silence for a moment before Ginny continued reading. “The third is the unskilled child, who asks, ‘What is this?’ The unskilled child is overwhelmed and at a loss. Often it is difficult to know where to start to engage with a subject, and in this case it is the responsibility of those more knowledgeable to help guide those who are confused, to prevent their confusion from turning to apathy.

“And what do we say to the child who does not know how to ask? We say: ‘Your questions, when they come, will liberate you.’ This is how it is, and has always been in our community. From the moment you question whether your life is as it should be until today, every question we ask helps us leave Egypt farther and farther behind.”

“Thanks, Ginny. How many people here didn’t think it would really get this bad? How many people here didn’t actually question the subtle, ingrained muggleborn hatred that’s allowed all of this to happen? How many people never thought about their blood status until this year?” Anthony could see people nodding, some looking down at their plates, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t think any of us will be able to forget it ever again. Our questioning and our fighting and our compassion will liberate us. I’ve got to believe it, or I… I don’t know what else to do.”

“We will get through this,” Neville said, his voice stronger and more certain than Anthony’s. “Harry will come back and defeat You-Know-Who. He’s out there and we just have to hang on until he does whatever it is he has to do.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Nelly asked. “What if he’s caught or killed? What if he can’t do it?”

“Then we keep fighting,” Neville said, not missing a beat. Anthony knew Neville had discussed this with Ginny, the two of them speaking in low voices late at night. Harry had become much larger than himself over the last few months — it was what people said to reassure themselves that there was an end in sight. Harry will save us. Harry will come. It was a mantra, almost. _I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah. Though he tarry, nonetheless do I believe he will come._

“We’ll do whatever we have to do when we get to it,” Anthony said. “There’s no point in borrowing trouble. For now, Susan, would you like to read next?”

“The story goes that at first, our ancestors worshipped idols…”

As the people took turns to tell the story of the Jewish people, Anthony took a moment to wonder about his own family. What was the Goldstein seder like? What would his parents think of Anthony leading his very first seder, here hidden away like criminals? No one else in the Room knew any of the tunes or the words; most of them might not even know the story. And yet there was a lump in his throat as he watched everyone solemnly read the words: there arose a king over Egypt who knew not Joseph.

We cried out to God, and God heard our voices.

God delivered us from Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. 

Even though this was not the story of their people, everyone was taking part, everyone was doing this — for him? For themselves? For the promise of hope it offered?

It came to his turn as they arrived at Dayeinu, and he swallowed in an attempt to shift the sensation that he was going to cry. “This next bit is a song, and we’re going to sing it because the chorus is very repetitive, so you’ll all be able to join in. I’ll do the verses, don’t worry. It’s a song about how if God had done but one miracle for us, that would have been enough — but God did so many miracles, and they just keep stacking. If only we had survived the Carrows, and we had not found the Room of Requirement, dayeinu, it would have been enough. If we had found the Room of Requirement and it had not given us a passage to the Hog’s Head, dayeinu, it would have been enough. If it had given us a passage to the Hog’s Head and we had not still found the strength to fight — dayeinu.”

Dayeinu was catchy enough that some of the kids who had been drooping in their seats perked up a bit, and by the last chorus everyone was singing along and banging on the table. Michael Corner providing a hilarious bass on the last dayeinu of each chorus had everyone giggling, and Anthony thought that his parents would be proud of him for leading a seder this well. They might have skipped some of the more traditional bits, but the spirit was very much still there.

“It’s time to fill up the second cup. I know, it’s ridiculous that we’ve only had one cup so far, but they’re not really equally spaced out, so don’t worry. With this cup, we recognise God’s promise to free us from slavery and bondage. We ask that this be an ongoing obligation, and for God to always see fit to free us whenever we find ourselves oppressed. Preferably before four hundred years have passed, this time. Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, borei pri hagafen. Blessed are You, Sovereign of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.”

They ended up back at Zacharias for explaining the symbols of the seder: the bone that represented the sacrifice commanded by God the night of the tenth plague, with which they smeared blood on their doorways so the Angel of Death wouldn’t come for their children. The matzah, transformed by the act of sharing it from the bread of affliction to the bread of freedom. And finally maror, the bitter herb eaten to remind them of the bitterness of slavery, and to enliven them to action.

“It’s time to wash our hands again, and this time I am going to pass the bowl around the table, and hopefully we won’t spill it,” Anthony said. While others had been reading, he’d whispered spells over the bowl, and the surprise and joy he saw on people’s faces as they poured water over their hands and their cuts healed, their bruises faded made his heart light. “We’re sanctifying our hands so we can eat, but also so we can act. Through sanctification we’re transformed; just as the matzah is transformed from the bread of affliction to the bread of freedom, so too we are transformed, for tonight — away from the Carrows, from the DA, and into freedom. There will come a day when we don’t constantly have injuries. Tonight is a small taste of that freedom.”

With that, he flicked his wand so matzah appeared on everyone’s plates. “We eat matzah tonight, the food which our ancestors ate leaving Egypt, as they did not have time to wait for their bread to rise. It reminds us that when the chance for liberation comes we must seize it, even if we do not feel ready. If we wait until we are fully ready, we may miss our chance or not act at all. Baruch atah, Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha’olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz. Baruch atah, Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha’olam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al achilat matzah. Blessed are You, Sovereign of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the ground. Blessed are You, Sovereign of the Universe, who hallows us with mitzvot and commands us to eat matzah.”

He bit into the matzah, and even thought it was just as dry and tasteless as it ever was, the way his chest swelled at the sight of watching everyone else at the table do the same made it taste delicious, just for a moment. It tasted like freedom.

“Maror and charoset combine to represent slavery: the charoset, while it represents the cement used to make bricks when we were slaves, is sweet, reminding us that oppression can be masked by familiar sweetness. We have to remain vigilant, and know that sometimes, the sweetest choice is not the right choice.” 

He made a blessing and everyone ate, that familiar mix of apple and horseradish that he only had once a year making him suddenly acutely homesick. At last, after more horseradish and matzah and a boiled egg, he served the meal and sat back down to enjoy the stew.

“About time,” Zacharias said through a mouthful of carrot and potato. “You Jewish people don’t half-arse this really long ritual dinner party thing, do you?”

“I thought it was wonderful,” Neville said, perhaps a little pointedly. Anthony tried not to think about it. He’d thought Neville and Zacharias had been getting on, finally.

“It’s not over yet, actually,” Anthony admitted. “There’s some stuff after the meal, too. Much shorter though, and a lot of it is singing which we’ll skip.”

He let the conversation mostly flow over him during the meal. He went back for seconds of the stew, making a mental note to thank Aberforth for it all later. They had prepared it, but Aberforth had given them the ingredients, so he had to get at least half the credit. 

Eventually everyone was done, and Anthony got everyone’s attention once more. “Nelly, Tribby, can you get the afikoman? We’ll have to somehow stretch it so that everyone gets a piece. A really small piece, I guess.” The girls retrieved it and dutifully parcelled it out, ending with Anthony getting the afikoman bag and a shard of matzah.

“This is the last food of the seder, with its taste remaining in our mouths while we finish celebrating Exodus from Egypt. The afikoman is the end of the meal, but it does not mark the end of the seder or of the process of tikkun olam, of repairing the world. When we finally achieve freedom — and we will; the afikoman is the faith that there is a way, though it might be hidden to us now — we cannot be content. Freedom is a beginning, not an end. The afikoman, too, is a beginning.” Everyone ate, and the afikoman was… well, alright, it was stale and tasteless. It was matzah.

“Now it’s time to do birkat, the grace after meals. You can follow along in your haggadot but don’t worry about joining in, most of it’s in Hebrew. I’m going to say this first part in English though, because it’s beautiful and I think we need that beauty to sustain us in the coming months.

“When God returns us – the repatriated of Zion – we will be as if dreamers. It is then that our mouths will swell with laughter, our tongues be overspread with songs of joy. It is then they will exclaim among nations: ‘Magnificent is what God has done for them.’ And magnificent is what God has done for us, we were exultant. Return, God, our captives, sure as the wadis will course the Negev. For those that sow with tears, with joy will reap. Walks on the walker crying, bearing the sack of seed; then comes the comer, rejoicing, carrying his sheaves.”

The rest of birkat was comforting, familiar; he ran through it on autopilot, the tune like honey on his tongue. Everyone said amein when indicated. It was perfect, as much as it could be in the circumstances.

The third cup was poured.

“With this third cup of wine we remember God’s promise to liberate us, and the coming redemption. May it come speedily and in our day.” They drank. Anthony was all out of grand speeches. He was also several cups of wine deep.

“We’re supposed to open the door now, but obviously that is a thing we absolutely cannot do. We can imagine it, perhaps. We open it to welcome in Eliyahu HaNavi, Elijah the Prophet, who will come before the Messiah. He comes to every seder and every circumcision to see that we are carrying on the traditions. We hope Eliyahu sees our intentions are good and brings on the Messianic Age, because we could really do with it about now.” He skipped the next few pages, because everyone had indulged him quite enough and hallel was only fun when other people knew the tunes.

“And now we pour our fourth cup, the last thing we do in the seder. With this cup we acknowledge the connection between the Jewish people and our God, and the covenant that binds us; perhaps in this context it’s better to think of the covenant that binds us together as Dumbledore’s Army, and the secret of this room that we hold sacred, with lives in the balance. May we celebrate next year in a place of safety and freedom and peace. L’shana haba’ah b’Yerushalayim.”

Next year they’d be free.


End file.
